Jaws

  “Or later today. But I don’t think we’ll have to wait that long.” Quint cut the engine, went to the stern, and lifted a bucket of chum onto the transom. “Start chummin’,” he said, handing Brody the ladle. He uncovered the sheep, tied a rope around its neck, and lay it on the gunwale. He slashed its stomach and flung the animal overboard, letting it drift twenty feet from the boat before securing the rope to an after cleat. Then he went forward, unlashed two barrels, and carried them, and their coils of ropes and harpoon darts, back to the stern. He set the barrels on each side of the transom, each next to its own rope, and slipped one dart onto the wooden throwing shaft. “Okay,” he said. “Now let’s see how long it takes.”

  The sky had lightened to full, gray daylight, and in ones and twos the lights on the shore flicked off.

  The stench of the mess Brody was ladling overboard made his stomach turn, and he wished he had eaten something—anything—before he left home.

  Quint sat on the flying bridge, watching the rhythms of the sea.

  Brody’s butt was sore from sitting on the hard transom, and his arm was growing weary from the dipping and emptying of the ladle. So he stood up, stretched, and, facing off the stern, tried a new scooping motion with the ladle.

  Suddenly he saw the monstrous head of the fish—not five feet away, so close he could reach over and touch it with the ladle—black eyes staring at him, silver-gray snout pointing at him, gaping jaw grinning at him. “Oh, God!” Brody said, wondering in his shock how long the fish had been there before he had stood up and turned around. “There he is!”

  Quint was down the ladder and at the stern in an instant. As he jumped onto the transom, the fish’s head slipped back into the water and, a second later, slammed into the transom. The jaws closed on the wood, and the head shook violently from side to side. Brody grabbed a cleat and held on, unable to look away from the eyes. The boat shuddered and jerked each time the fish moved its head. Quint slipped and fell to his knees on the transom. The fish let go and dropped beneath the surface, and the boat lay still again.

  “He was waiting for us!” yelled Brody.

  “I know,” said Quint.

  “How did he—”

  “It don’t matter,” said Quint. “We’ve got him now.”

  “We’ve got him? Did you see what he did to the boat?”

  “Give it a mighty good shake, didn’t he?”

  The rope holding the sheep tightened, shook for a moment, then went slack.

  Quint stood and picked up the harpoon. “He’s took the sheep. It’ll be a minute before he comes back.”

  “How come he didn’t take the sheep first?”

  “He got no manners,” Quint cackled. “Come on, you motherfucker. Come and get your due.”

  Brody saw fever in Quint’s face—a heat that lit up his dark eyes, an intensity that drew his lips back from his teeth in a crooked smile, an anticipation that strummed the sinews in his neck and whitened his knuckles.

  The boat shuddered again, and there was a dull, hollow thump.

  “What’s he doing?” said Brody.

  Quint leaned over the side and shouted, “Come out from under there, you cocksucker! Where are your guts? You’ll not sink me before I get to you!”

  “What do you mean, sink us?” said Brody. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s trying to chew a hole in the bottom of the fucking boat, that’s what! Look in the bilge. Come out, you godforsaken sonofabitch!” Quint raised high his harpoon.

  Brody knelt and raised the hatch cover over the engine room. He peered into the dark, oily hole. There was water in the bilges, but there always was, and he saw no new hole through which water could pour. “Looks okay to me,” he said. “Thank God.”

  The dorsal fin and tail surfaced ten yards to the right of the stern and began to move again toward the boat. “There you come,” said Quint, cooing. “There you come.” He stood, legs spread, left hand on his hip, right hand extended to the sky, grasping the harpoon. When the fish was a few feet from the boat and heading straight on, Quint cast his iron.

  The harpoon struck the fish in front of the dorsal fin. And then the fish hit the boat, knocking the stern sideways and sending Quint tumbling backward. His head struck the foot-rest of the fighting chair, and a trickle of blood ran down his neck. He jumped to his feet and cried, “I got you! I got you, you miserable prick!”

  The rope attached to the iron dart snaked overboard as the fish sounded, and when it reached the end, the barrel popped off the transom, fell into the water, and vanished.

  “He took it down with him!” said Brody.

  “Not for long,” said Quint. “He’ll be back, and we’ll throw another into him, and another, and another, until he quits. And then he’s ours!” Quint leaned on the transom, watching the water.

  Quint’s confidence was contagious, and Brody now felt ebullient, gleeful, relieved. It was a kind of freedom, a freedom from the mist of death. He yelled, “Hot shit!” Then he noticed the blood running down Quint’s neck, and he said, “Your head’s bleeding.”

  “Get another barrel,” said Quint. “Bring it back here. And don’t fuck up the coil. I want it to go over smooth as cream.”

  Brody ran forward, unlashed a barrel, slipped the coiled rope over his arm, and carried the gear to Quint.

  “There he comes,” said Quint, pointing to the left. The barrel came to the surface and bobbed in the water. Quint pulled the string attached to the wooden shaft and brought it aboard. He fixed the shaft to the new dart and raised the harpoon above his head. “He’s coming up!”

  The fish broke water a few yards from the boat. Like a rocket lifting off, snout, jaw, and pectoral fins rose straight from the water. Then the smoke-white belly, pelvic fin, and huge, salamilike claspers.

  “I see your cock, you bastard!” cried Quint, and he threw a second iron, leaning his shoulder and back into the throw. The iron hit the fish in the belly, just as the great body began to fall forward. The belly smacked the water with a thunderous boom, sending a blinding fall of spray over the boat. “He’s done!” said Quint as the second rope uncoiled and tumbled overboard.

  The boat lurched once, and again, and there was the distant sound of crunching.

  “Attack me, will you?” said Quint. “You’ll take no man with you, uppity fuck!” Quint ran forward and started the engine. He pushed the throttle forward, and the boat moved away from the bobbing barrels.

  “Has he done any damage?” said Brody.

  “Some. We’re riding a little heavy aft. He probably poked a hole in us. It’s nothing to worry about. We’ll pump her out.”

  “That’s it, then,” Brody said happily.

  “What’s what?”

  “The fish is as good as dead.”

  “Not quite. Look.”

  Following the boat, keeping pace, were the two red wooden barrels. They did not bob. Dragged by the great force of the fish, each cut through the water, pushing a wave before it and leaving a wake behind.

  “He’s chasing us?” said Brody.

  Quint nodded.

  “Why? He can’t still think we’re food.”

  “No. He means to make a fight of it.”

  For the first time, Brody saw a frown of disquiet on Quint’s face. It was not fear, nor true alarm, but rather a look of uneasy concern—as if, in a game, the rules had been changed without warning, or the stakes raised. Seeing the change in Quint’s mood, Brody was afraid.

  “Have you ever had a fish do this before?” he asked.

  “Not like this, no. I’ve had ’em attack the boat, like I told you. But most times, once you get an iron in ’em, they stop fighting you and fight against that thing stickin’ in ’em.”

  Brody looked astern. The boat was moving at moderate speed, turning this way and that in response to Quint’s random turning of the wheel. Always the barrels kept up with them.

  “Fuck it,” said Quint. “If it’s a fight he wants, it’s a fight he’ll get.” He thr
ottled down to idling speed, jumped down from the flying bridge and up onto the transom. He picked up the harpoon. Excitement had returned to his face. “Okay, shit-eater!” he called. “Come and get it!”

  The barrels kept coming, plowing through the water—thirty yards away, then twenty-five, then twenty. Brody saw the flat plain of gray pass along the starboard side of the boat, six feet beneath the surface. “He’s here!” he cried. “Heading forward.”

  “Shit!” said Quint, cursing his misjudgment of the length of the ropes. He detached the harpoon dart from the shaft, snapped the twine that held the shaft to a cleat, hopped down from the transom, and ran forward. When he reached the bow, he bent down and tied the twine to a forward cleat, unlashed a barrel, and slipped its dart onto the shaft. He stood at the end of the pulpit, harpoon raised.

  The fish had already passed out of range. The tail surfaced twenty feet in front of the boat. The two barrels bumped into the stern almost simultaneously. They bounced once, then rolled off the stern, one on each side, and slid down the sides of the boat.

  Thirty yards in front of the boat, the fish turned. The head raised out of the water, then dipped back in. The tail, standing like a sail, began to thrash back and forth. “Here he comes!” said Quint.

  Brody raced up the ladder to the flying bridge. Just as he got there, he saw Quint draw his right arm back and rise up on tiptoes.

  The fish hit the bow head on, with a noise like a muffled explosion. Quint cast his iron. It struck the fish atop the head, over the right eye, and it held fast. The rope fed slowly overboard as the fish backed off.

  “Perfect!” said Quint. “Got him in the head that time.”

  There were three barrels in the water now, and they skated across the surface. Then they disappeared.

  “God damn!” said Quint. “That’s no normal fish that can sound with three irons in him and three barrels to hold him up.”

  The boat trembled, seeming to rise up, then dropped back. The barrels popped up, two on one side of the boat, one on the other. Then they submerged again. A few seconds later, they reappeared twenty yards from the boat.

  “Go below,” said Quint, as he readied another harpoon. “See if that prick done us any dirt up forward.”

  Brody swung down into the cabin. It was dry. He pulled back the threadbare carpet, saw a hatch, and opened it. A stream of water was flowing aft beneath the floor of the cabin. We’re sinking, he told himself, and the memories of his childhood nightmares leaped into his mind. He went topside and said to Quint, “It doesn’t look good. There’s a lot of water under the cabin floor.”

  “I better go take a look. Here.” Quint handed Brody the harpoon. “If he comes back while I’m below, stick this in him for good measure.” He walked aft and went below.

  Brody stood on the pulpit, holding the harpoon, and he looked at the floating barrels. They lay practically still in the water, twitching now and then as the fish moved about below. How do you die? Brody said silently to the fish. He heard an electric motor start.

  “No sweat,” said Quint, walking forward. He took the harpoon from Brody. “He’s banged us up, all right, but the pumps should take care of it. We’ll be able to tow him in.”

  Brody dried his palms on the seat of his pants. “Are you really going to tow him in?”

  “I am. When he dies.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “When he’s ready.”

  “And until then?”

  “We wait.”

  Brody looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty.

  For three hours they waited, tracking the barrels as they moved, ever more slowly, on a random path across the surface of the sea. At first they would disappear every ten or fifteen minutes, resurfacing a few dozen yards away. Then their submergences grew rarer until, by eleven, they had not gone under for nearly an hour. By eleven-thirty, the barrels were wallowing in the water.

  The rain had stopped, and the wind had subsided to a comfortable breeze. The sky was an unbroken sheet of gray.

  “What do you think?” said Brody. “Is he dead?”

  “I doubt it. But he may be close enough to it for us to throw a rope ’round his tail and drag him till he drowns.”

  Quint took a coil of rope from one of the barrels in the bow. He tied one end to an after cleat. The other end he tied into a noose.

  At the foot of the gin pole was an electric winch. Quint switched it on to make sure it was working, then turned it off again. He gunned the engine and moved the boat toward the barrels. He drove slowly, cautiously, prepared to veer away if the fish attacked. But the barrels lay still.

  Quint idled the engine when he came alongside the barrels. He reached overboard with a gaff, snagged a rope, and pulled a barrel aboard. He tried to untie the rope from the barrel, but the knot had been soaked and strained. So he took his knife from the sheath at his belt and cut the rope. He stabbed the knife into the gunwale, freeing his left hand to hold the rope, his right to shove the barrel to the deck.

  He climbed onto the gunwale, ran the rope through a pulley at the top of the gin pole and down the pole to the winch. He took a few turns around the winch, then flipped the starter switch. As soon as the slack in the rope was taken up, the boat heeled hard to starboard, dragged down by the weight of the fish.

  “Can that winch handle him?” said Brody.

  “Seems to be. It’d never haul him out of the water, but I bet it’ll bring him up to us.” The winch was turning slowly, humming, taking a full turn every three or four seconds. The rope quivered under the strain, scattering drops of water on Quint’s shirt.

  Suddenly the rope started coming too fast. It fouled on the winch, coiling in snarls. The boat snapped upright.

  “Rope break?” said Brody.

  “Shit no!” said Quint, and now Brody saw fear in his face. “The sonofabitch is coming up!” He dashed to the controls and threw the engine into forward. But it was too late.

  The fish broke water right beside the boat, with a great rushing whoosh of noise. It rose vertically, and in an instant of horror Brody gasped at the size of the body. Towering overhead, it blocked out the light. The pectoral fins hovered like wings, stiff and straight, and as the fish fell forward, they seemed to be reaching out to Brody.

  The fish landed on the stern of the boat with a shattering crash, driving the boat beneath the waves. Water poured in over the transom. In seconds, Quint and Brody were standing in water up to their hips.

  The fish lay there, its jaw not three feet from Brody’s chest. The body twitched, and in the black eye, as big as a baseball, Brody thought he saw his own image reflected.

  “God damn your black soul!” screamed Quint. “You sunk my boat!” A barrel floated into the cockpit, the rope writhing like a gathering of worms. Quint grabbed the harpoon dart at the end of the rope and, with his hand, plunged it into the soft white belly of the fish. Blood poured from the wound and bathed Quint’s hands.

  The boat was sinking. The stern was completely submerged, and the bow was rising.

  The fish rolled off the stern and slid beneath the waves. The rope, attached to the dart Quint had stuck into the fish, followed.

  Suddenly, Quint lost his footing and fell backward into the water. “The knife!” he cried, lifting his left leg above the surface, and Brody saw the rope coiled around Quint’s foot.

  Brody looked to the starboard gunwale. The knife was there, embedded in the wood. He lunged for it, wrenched it free, and turned back, struggling to run in the deepening water. He could not move fast enough. He watched in helpless terror as Quint, reaching toward him with grasping fingers, eyes wide and pleading, was pulled slowly down into the dark water.

  For a moment there was silence, except for the sucking sound of the boat slipping gradually down. The water was up to Brody’s shoulders, and he clung desperately to the gin pole. A seat cushion popped to the surface next to him, and Brody grabbed it. (“They’d hold you up all right,” Brody remembered Hendricks sayi
ng, “if you were an eight-year-old boy.”)

  Brody saw the tail and dorsal fin break the surface twenty yards away. The tail waved once left, once right, and the dorsal fin moved closer. “Get away, damn you!” Brody yelled.

  The fish kept coming, barely moving, closing in. The barrels and skeins of rope trailed behind.

  The gin pole went under, and Brody let go of it. He tried to kick over to the bow of the boat, which was almost vertical now. Before he could reach it, the bow raised even higher, then quickly and soundlessly slid beneath the surface.

  Brody clutched the cushion, and he found that by holding it in front of him, his forearms across it, and by kicking constantly, he could stay afloat without exhausting himself.

  The fish came closer. It was only a few feet away, and Brody could see the conical snout. He screamed, an ejaculation of hopelessness, and closed his eyes, waiting for an agony he could not imagine.

  Nothing happened. He opened his eyes. The fish was nearly touching him, only a foot or two away, but it had stopped. And then, as Brody watched, the steel-gray body began to recede downward into the gloom. It seemed to fall away, an apparition evanescing into darkness.

  Brody put his face into the water and opened his eyes. Through the stinging saltwater mist he saw the fish sink in a slow and graceful spiral, trailing behind it the body of Quint—arms out to the sides, head thrown back, mouth open in mute protest.

  The fish faded from view. But, kept from sinking into the deep by the bobbing barrels, it stopped somewhere beyond the reach of light, and Quint’s body hung suspended, a shadow twirling slowly in the twilight.

  Brody watched until his lungs ached for air. He raised his head, cleared his eyes, and sighted in the distance the black point of the water tower. Then he began to kick toward shore.

  eBook Bonus Content

  This edition of Jaws contains bonus content from Peter Benchley’s archives, including the original typed title page for the novel, the author’s notes on the script for the movie adaptation, and two articles written on the twenty-fifth and thirtieth anniversaries of the release of the film.